


In Knowledge, Power

by LightningStarborne, yourlocalbirb



Series: In Knowledge, Power AU [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Also known as the "Older Ezio Speedruns AC2 and causes mass confusion" AU, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-11-28 10:16:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18207062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningStarborne/pseuds/LightningStarborne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlocalbirb/pseuds/yourlocalbirb
Summary: Ezio Auditore takes his last breath on a bench in Firenze in 1524. Then he wakes up, 50 years in the past.





	1. Sequence 1: In Wisdom, Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In much wisdom, there is much grief, and he who increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow.” ~Solomon, The Bible 
> 
> Through circumstances beyond his understanding, Ezio finds himself alive once more after his supposed "death"- two years before the conspiracy that took his family from him. 
> 
> This is his chance to set things right, but he isn't sure that he has the strength to take it.

MEMORY 1: BOYS WILL BE BOYS

Ezio isn't sure if it's just his presence here in the past that has caused things to change, or something else, but regardless, he finds himself caught unawares ( _foolish, foolish, foolish, when will he ever learn??_ ) and on the receiving end of a rock to the face much earlier than he'd expected. For a moment, his vision swims, and his mouth blossoms with a pain so familiar that he is young and 17 again. (Nevermind that this body is only 15, or the Young Pazzi across from him younger still, it is close enough that his mind refuses to acknowledge the differences, such as they are.)

 

And then Vieri steps forward, all cocky, youthful arrogance, and, suddenly reminded of just what the little bastard had done (would do), Ezio sees red. He has not been this angry in a long time, not since he was very young (older, but younger than he was before this) and found that the blood of Uberto Alberti coating his hands utterly failed to slake his desire for revenge.

 

There is no entourage of ‘friends’ bought with coin and charm and family influence to back him up this time, but that is fine with Ezio.

 

He is no longer the young man his body insists he is, and he has no need for any aid save that of his fists.

 

He moves through the Pazzi's mercenaries with a brutal but restrained ease- they are not his targets- the pale red-tinged-with-fear of their auras far outshined by the looked-for-and-found-enemy red-gold that is their leader.

 

He could kill any of them with ease, with nothing but his fists and cunning and skill, but “stay-your-blade-from-the-flesh-of-the-innocent” is ingrained into his very subconscious, and so he merely tosses them aside, groaning into the dust of the stone street, as soon as he is assured they will not rise again anytime soon. All too soon, the fight is over- clearly, quicker than Vieri expected, as he makes a bid to run for it, shoving the last two mercenaries at Ezio like the coward he is.

 

But Ezio is quicker, faster, with decades of experience over the other man, and Vieri is not and never will be, ‘innocent’.

 

* * *

 

“ _Ezio…_ ” Federico starts, and although Ezio pauses at the apprehension in his sibling’s voice, he doesn't bother looking up. His gift shows no trace, sight, or sound of enemy-red, save for the lingering auras of the unconscious figures around them. ”.... _what_ _are_ you _doing_? You took their money already, we can _go_ now. Which we _should_. Preferably _before_ the _guardie_ come.”

 

Ezio merely grunts as he hefts the unconscious fighter into his arms. “Can't leave evidence.” He drawls, irritation seeping into his voice. Really, how hard is this to understand.

 

“ _....Right, right_ .” says Federico, in a tone that implied he thought Ezio was not _right_ at all, either in the head _or_ opinion.

 

Ezio merely rolled his eyes and continued with his task. His eagle sense picked up the faint, familiar chiming noise he had come to associate with valuables and he paused, shifting minutely as he felt for the source of the sound.

 

Ah, _there._

 

He dropped the man unceremoniously next to the haystack, squatting as he re-assessed the contents of the man’s pockets. He frowned, tilting his head. Had he perhaps missed an inner pocket?

 

“So,” Federico broke the silence. “This means ...lifting _every_ valuable you can carry off these poor imbeciles  and… then…. dumping them…. _In_ the _haystack_?”

 

Ah, not a pocket then, but the boot.

 

“Well, _obviously._ ” Ezio drawled, a small, triumphant half-smile flitting across his face as he pulled a throwing knife from the man’s boot, examining it briefly before carefully tucking it into his own. “I can’t just leave them _lying there_ in the street. The _guards_ would _notice_ . What else should I do, throw them over the bridge?” He scoffed as he looked up at Federico, his eyes glowing a molten gold under his borrowed hood. “Brother, please, I’m not _an animal_.”

 

Underneath him, the mercenary groaned and started to try to sit up, and Ezio turned his attention to him at once, swiftly cuffing the man sharply about the head. The man flailed feebly, trying to break free of his grip, and Ezio leaned forward, using the full force of his weight to pin the man by the throat to the ground until the thrashing stopped and the man slipped back into unconsciousness.

 

Satisfied that the man was no longer a threat, he returned his attention back to Federico, who was watching his little brother with a look of mild horror on his face.

 

“Rii-ight. Ok. Sure.”  

  
Ezio snorts at him, and politely pretends not to see the hooded figures- one wearing the bright white of a _Maestro_ , and the other a distinctly familiar brown- watching them from the end of the alleyway.

 

It's rude to acknowledge a Brother when they are obviously working, after all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Giovanni's son was not a violent person by nature, he knows. Ezio has gotten into his fair share of scraps and fights, like any young man, true, but this... This is something new.

 

The way he'd had Vieri pinned to the ground, the way he moved- Giovanni had very little doubt in his mind that, had he not seen and sent Federico to intervene, the young Pazzi would not have survived the encounter. Giovanni knew killing intent when he saw it, and he ill-liked seeing it on his son's face.

 

Giovanni could only guess at what the young noble might have said to provoke such violent reaction from his son, but even what he imagined somehow felt as though it fell short, undeserving of the depth of such a reaction.

 

Something is deeply wrong with his son, and the way he stoically accepts Giovanni's scolding, not even making a single effort to protest or defend himself only confirms it.

 

He sighs, running his hands through his hair, and turns on his heel.

 

Ezio dutifully follows after him.

 

They've not gotten very far before Ezio mumbles something under his breath, and Giovanni is forced to mask his relief under a stony authority. " _What_ was that, _Ezio?_ " He demands sharply.

 

Ezio has stopped once again, and looks up from his hands to look his father directly in the eyes. " I could have _killed_ him." The horror and surety in his son’s voice send a chill down his own spine, for all he welcomes the fact that Ezio recognizes this. “He is ..so _young_ . Little more than a child- and I would have _killed_ him!”

 

* * *

 

  

MEMORY 2: YOU SHOULD SEE THE OTHER GUY

 

Ezio stared blankly down at the sketch in the open book before him: Sofia, Flavia, Marcello, all  with open, doting expressions on their faces. He sucked in a deep breath, and carefully shoved all his emotions to the side, clamping down on the anger and grief that raged inside his chest.

 

Fate is cruel.

 

He had given up this life, exchanged blades and hooded robes for a vineyard and loving wife, a family, exchanged battle and the rhythm of death and loss that had eaten up 40 years of his life for stability and a chance at happiness.

 

Surely, whatever higher power that had caused him to be here- be it God, or Juno, or Minerva, or hells, even Cesare’s Fortuna, surely they owed it to him to allow him some small measure of peace, not to throw him back right into the heart of all his sorrow and pain.

 

And, yet.

 

And yet, …..stranded as he is, Ezio cannot stop himself from cringing at the feeling of raw, too-exposed vulnerability.  He flexes his hands on instinct, the non-hiss of not-there blades grating on his nerves just as much as the lack of a hood. He sighs, the wistful, mournful sigh of the very old ill-fitting to his too-young mouth, and resolves, quietly, to procure both as soon as possible.  His hands itch for blades, for climbing, and he wants desperately to move, to hide.

  
These streets no longer mean safety- had not for decades of his past-life-not-yet-lived, even when he was grown old and tired and grasping at peace. He had returned many times, but he could never again find it in himself to _love_ his city again, not even as he died in it. Though the first 17 years of his life were spent running and loving and playing on the streets and rooftops of this city, those years are now long past by his reckoning- and he spend far longer stalking these streets hooded and cowled and _angry-_ so long that to be anything _but_ an _Assassin_ when in Firenze feels almost sacrilegious.

 

* * *

  

A rock wizzes by, clattering noisily against the roof tiles a good two feet away from him. Unperturbed, Ezio merely grimaces and looks down over top of his sketches to find…. Duccio standing in the street below him, one hand shading his eyes, while the other clutches another rock, ready to throw. "That was a lousy throw. Your aim was off." He sighs, and closes the loosely bound book, tucking the charcoal safely away in a pouch on his belt. "What do you want, Duccio? If this is about my sister-" he warned, eyes narrowing as he stood. He'd been quick to take the little brat to task for his lecherous ways, and had no qualms about issuing further ... _advice_ if it proved necessary. Preferably with his fists. 

  
Duccio snorted openly at that. "Teach me to fight and climb like you do, Aquila." he demanded, raising his chin defiantly, and Ezio blinked in mute surprise at the familiar nickname his brothers in Roma had been so fond of using, sounding strange and foreign coming from Duccio's mouth.  Ezio almost didn't recognise the second, taller figure behind Duccio as Vieri de' Pazzi until the other boy spoke up.

 

"And me, as well! Anything an Auditore can do, so can a Pazzi!"

 

Ezio could not help but gawk incredulously. Had he… had he perhaps simply hit Vieri _too hard,_ or maybe his hearing was finally going in his .. old, **_no-_ ** youn- whatever. _Age._

  

* * *

 

Ezio considers the robes thoughtfully. There are subtle differences, true- the hood lacks the distinctive beak of a true Assassin's hood, and is deeper to compensate, and the cut is angled differently, more akin to the Ottoman style robes he'd last worn, but they are just similar enough when he pulls them on to trigger an absurd wave of nostalgia.

The fabric itself is a dark, rich brown that looks almost black at first glance, heavily padded, and of such a fine, sturdy quality that had drained his funds, and had had Federico mockingly questioning just ‘what he'd spent all his money on’ one moment, and complaining that Ezio had “forgotten how to have fun’ the next.

Ezio had had to stop and remind himself what he was doing there, and he suspected he'd given the tailor and his assistante quite the headache as he hemmed and hawed, almost choosing the pristine white fabrics several times only to change his mind again at the last minute, opting for darker tones instead.

This had gone on for several more minutes than he'd like to admit.

Now, though, the robes completed according to his specifications and in his hands, he found himself feeling quite satisfied with his choice. During his long years spent in service to their Creed, Ezio had come to quickly realize, that, while symbolic of the level of skill necessary to exist as one of their Brotherhood, wearing white robes in their bloody line of work was simply, for the most part, impractical- both for mundane, laundering reasons as well as the delicate matter of attempting to pass unseen to the eyes of actively searching guards.

For that reason, he’d encouraged his students in Iola Tiberna to have their robes dyed or altered however they felt would best suit their tasks- though once they achieved the rank of Maestro they were also given a set of white robes as well. Many, seeking to follow their Mentore’s legendary example, proudly chose to wear their Master’s robes despite the inherent difficulties and added risk they imposed. Ezio, while flattered, nonetheless did not envy them on laundry day.  

 

* * *

 

MEMORY 3: NIGHTCAP

 

The thunderstorm is obnoxiously loud, rolling and booming thunder followed by lightning more piercingly bright than the fireworks of Carnivale, so Ezio is disinclined to remove the pillow from over his head when the door to his room slams open, and merely grunts in acknowledgement of the intruders.

 

Claudia and Petruccio are just young enough to seek comfort from an older sibling in terror of the storm, and Ezio just old enough to have not yet lost that hard won skill of remaining half-asleep yet comforting in the face of the frightened and very small.

 

Unwilling to expose himself to the storm, Ezio merely groggily blinks his second sight into place in favor of removing the pillow, and smiles fondly at the familiar two gold-blue shapes of children. Sleep threatens to claim him, and for a moment, the world slips sideways, and he forgets when and where he is.

 

His voice, muffled by the pillow, is infused with warmth. "Children? And what are you doing up at this hour, hm?"

 

A moment of silence, and, then; "...The storm is very loud. We-" Ezio stifled a chuckle as the girl hastened to correct herself. " _He_ was scared." She gestured to her younger brother.

 

"Oh?" He frowned, and shifted, throwing out his senses, searching for….something. "Does your mother know you're here?" The bed to the right of him is empty, and cold. "..... No?" the confusion in the younger boy's voice throws him off, but the difference is small enough that it is easily dismissed, and Ezio sighs fondly.

 

Sophia will run herself ragged in pursuit of a new book, eschewing sleep and food in favor of knowledge. _Dio_ , but he loves that woman….

 

He almost gets up to go and find her, but the children in front of him shift impatiently, spooked by another loud roll of thunder.

 

He chuckles, and pulls up the bedcovers, shimmying his way closer to the center of the bed. "Well, come on then."

 

The two dart forward eagerly, the younger boy nestling between his sister against Ezio's chest, and his heart swells with love.

 

He presses a kiss to the crown of the boy's head, and he _-_ **_Marcello_ ** _, his sleep-addled mind insists-_ giggles sleepily and snuggles closer, slurring out a goodnight.

 

"Goodnight, Marcello, Flavia." He reaches out, and gently pulls the sleeping girl closer.

 

The storm has blown over by the time Ezio wakes.

 

He gently ushers his younger siblings out of his room and into the hall where Anita waits. Claudia passes him with a sleepy yawn, and Ezio is busy stifling one of his own when a soft tug at his elbow draws his attention. He blinks down at Petruccio with a mumbled “Si, bambino?”

 

Petruccio looks up at him with those big, clever eyes and says “Ezio, who’re Flavia and Marcello? ”

 

Ezio goes still, and then, remembering Anita in the hall beyond, fights to maintain some sort of composure. He considers his answer, choosing his words carefully. “They are…..children.. Of a ...friend of mine.”

 

Petruccio blinks up at him, a canny look on his face, and for a brief, absurd moment Ezio thinks Petruccio must _know_ and will call him out on his lie.  

 

“Oh.” is all Petruccio says, seemingly satisfied with the answer. His face brightens slightly, and he turns back to his older brother, half hopeful and half shy. “ Do you… d’you think I could meet them sometime? To play, I mean?” He wrings his little hands nervously, and Ezio is reminded, for the first time, how lonely Petruccio’s existence must be.  He has very few friends his age, having been pulled out of schooling only a couple of years before, and, as sick as he often is, what little time he is allowed to spend outside offers little in the way of play. “Do you.. Do you think they’d like me, Ezio?” he inquires, deflating slightly when Ezio does not immediately answer.

 

The question jolts Ezio out of his thoughts, and he kneels so that he is level with the youngest Auditore. _“Of course_ they’d like you, Petruccio!”

 

“Really?!”

 

Ezio winks, “I know that for a fact. They…. My friend doesn’t live here in Firenze, not ye- not anymore.” he amends hastily. “They, ah. They moved. But- when they come back, you _will_ get to meet them, Petruccio, I promise.” 


	2. Sequence 1: In Wisdom, Grief pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezio makes some new (old) friends.

 MEMORY 4: PAPERBOY

 

When he’d accepted his father’s request to deliver a letter for him, Ezio initially hadn’t thought much of it- neither the letter’s contents, nor its intended recipient, as they were simply one of many associates of his father’s.  

 

The Pazzi Conspiracy was nearly two years away, and he knew from his own investigations into his father’s letters that he’d not found any traces of Templar activity until nearly a year from now- though that still did not stop Ezio from delicately prying the seal up and checking anyways. He was both disappointed and relieved to find that the subject matter was, truly, about nothing more than banking. He hastily -but carefully- refolded the letter, and tucked it back into a pouch on his belt as he ambled out of the alleyway and onto the street.

 

The man’s name, however, struck him as oddly familiar, and he frowned, absentmindedly rubbing his hand over the scar on his lip as he stopped before the door to the man’s home, his other hand raised to knock on the broad wooden door.

 

_Bernardo_ , _Bernardo_ , _where had he heard the name Bernardo before?_

 

Ezio startled as the door swung open abruptly, before he could knock.

 

A young, dark haired boy, surely no older than seven or eight at the most, stood in the doorway, watching him with a bland expression. Ezio found himself filled with an the overwhelming sense of familiarity once more. He had seen this boy before, somewhere, he _knew_ it.  

 

A moment of silence passed as they stared blankly at one another before the boy let out a pointedly polite-yet-unimpressed cough, and then spoke; “Well… are you going to just stand there in the doorway the whole time, or did you actually _need_ something?" Wincing, he tacked on, "Messare," almost as an afterthought.

 

“Ah,” Ezio blinked at the child's’ bluntness, shook himself, and then sheepishly produced the letter. “I have a letter here, for Messere Bernardo-”

 

The boy stepped forward to take the letter, the door thumping shut behind him as he let go of it.

 

“My father isn’t here at the moment-” the child paused, the neutral look deepening into a frown as the letter, no longer sealed, unfolded in his hands. His eyes flickered from the broken seal to Ezio and back again and then he continued on, quirking an eyebrow as he quickly refolded it. “-luckily for you, Ezio. Honestly, did you even _think_ before you broke the seal?”

 

Ezio blinked, and scrambled to defend himself. “ I did not-”

 

“That much is _clearly_ obvious, yes,” the boy interrupted with a snort and Ezio trailed off, suddenly aware of the absurdity of trying to defend himself to a _child._ He frowned in dismayed confusion. What about the boy had made him even  _want_ to do that?

 

“Well?” the boy queried, still standing in the doorway with a single unimpressed eyebrow raised. When Ezio did not move, he rolled his eyes, tucked the letter under one arm, and shoved at the heavy wooden door. “Come on, then, I still have some time before I’m expected to be elsewhere and if we’re lucky we’ll have time to fix your amatuer mistake before my father returns.”

 

Out of a habit that came from raising young children, Ezio automatically reached out and caught the door, shoving it the rest of the way open.

 

He frowned at the back of the boy’s head as he followed him further into the hallway, only listening with half an ear as the other lectured him, absurdly, on the delicate art of forgeries and credible fakes.

 

“-honestly, you _really_ should know better, Ezio-”

 

Ezio grimaced. Despite his acerbic attitude, the boy was right -Ezio really _should_ have known better- and then he blinked, wondering how the boy might _possibly_ know enough about forgeries to lecture someone about it.

 

“-what if this had been a letter you’d intercepted from one of the Pazzi, or worse still, the Borgia-”

 

Ezio froze in the doorway to the study, staring at the boy with wide eyes.

 

“ _How could you know about that?_ ” he hissed sharply.

 

Bernardo’s son turned to look at him appraisingly, and then nodded to himself before pacing over to a nearby desk.

 

“The same way you do, I’d wager,” he replied flatly, setting the letter down on the desk.

 

Ezio blinked his second sight into place warily, and the boy met his unblinking stare with one of his own, calm and collected. The bright blue aura faded as he let go of his gift to stare at the crest carved above the mantel. _Of course, how could he have been so stupid, of course it was-_

 

 “...Niccolo?” he ventured, hesitantly. It was surely impossible, but there was simply no other explanation-

 

“ _Oh grazia a dio_ , perhaps you’re not a complete and total loss after all, oh great Mentore. Now, come. Help me fix this before you manage to create even more trouble.”

 

* * *

 

“I suppose that... I am rather glad that you’re... _you_.” Niccolo sniffed delicately as he settled onto the bench beside him. He waved a hand, and continued rather ineffectually. “ and... here. Now.”

 

“It does make my plans _much_ easier.” he added, swinging his legs absentmindedly as he leaned forward on the bench, deep in thought. Ezio hastily smothered a grin at the sight. Machiavelli would _not_ appreciate being laughed at, he knew.

 

“Liberating the codex pages from their Pazzi captors, and saving your family from certain death was seeming as though it would prove a rather daunting task. Seeing as I am, and I quote 'only seven years old, and better off outside playing with others my age than getting underfoot in the business of adults.'” Niccolo threw his hands up in exasperation, and then looked down, grimaced as he finally caught on to what he’d been subconsciously doing, quickly stilling his legs and squirming around as he tried to sit up straighter and recover at least some of his dignity.

 

“Wretched little child’s body,” Niccolo hissed in distaste. “No attention span to speak of, and the fidgeting is _unbearable_.”   

 

Ezio made a noise of absent consolation, refraining at the last minute from ruffling a hand through Nicco’s hair, still halfway caught up in trying to imagine a young Niccolo actually _playing_ with other children. The thought was absurd, and he found that he somehow couldn’t imagine it -though he supposed it had to have happened at some point, in his first life.

 

* * *

 

Ezio frowned as he surveyed the imposing architecture of the Palazzo Medici.  

 

Niccolo was right.

 

If his plan was going to work -if he wanted any chance of countering whatever plans their enemies had in motion- he was going to need to have his fingers on the pulse of the city. Even the thieves could only tell him so much, and he dared not seek out La Volpe -not yet, at least.

 

For all his research and hunting after his family's murders last time, there had still been pieces of the puzzle missing. The fine details, the whens, the hows, the movements of troops and the import of weapons- knowledge of this kind had now become paramount to his plan’s success.

 

Ezio held little hope, however, that things would remain exactly the same in his enemies’ plans, regardless, he’d had seen how much his presence here had already impacted events -the scar on his lips, two years too soon, was a ever-present reminder of that.  

 

However, this was a possibility that he intended to turn to his favor.

 

_“If their plans_ do _change, Niccolo” he’d said, carefully affecting a casual tone, leaning forward on the bench they'd chosen for their secret, impromptu council. “Then let_ us _be the ones to change them.”_

 

Which was why it was important that he find himself a steady, reliable source of information- and where better to start than the political heart of Firenze itself.

 

* * *

 

Installing himself as the assistant to the Medici’s falconiere had been almost ridiculously easy- which perhaps spoke to troubling issues with the security of the Palazzo Medici- although, granted, his acceptance had most likely had more to do with the close friendship his family held with the Medici.

 

Well, that, and the fact that Lorenzo himself had been present when the idea had been suggested.

 

Regardless, the opportunity the offer had represented had been too good to pass up, despite it’s double-edged nature. True, it would perhaps draw his father’s scrutiny to find that his son had gone behind his back, and would doubtless put him into close quarters with the man’s Assassin-related activities for the Medici household, a fact he knew would likely frustrate his father to no end -but it would also afford him several advantages- if his father saw him, frequently and consistently, in the Medici’s household and assumed that the cause of his seeking an apprenticeship was nothing more than the whims of a young man, then he would not think to connect Ezio with any of his preparations in the city outside the Palazzo for countering the Pazzi.

 

Ezio was not enough of a fool to think that his movements would go unnoticed, especially as his father began uncovering more details about the Pazzi Conspiracy in the months to come.

 

It also gave him the chance to explore a curious new development in his second sight. As he’d grown older, he’d become acclimated to the haphazard evolution of his gift, so Ezio was not unduly worried when the headeaches he'd had in the past few months -a usually reliable prelude to a new part of his second sight- lead to him seeing through the eyes of nearby birds.

 

At first, he'd taken to climbing in search of nearby eagles' nests because, for some bizarre reason, eagles and other birds of prey seemed to be the easiest to make contact with. The way the gift evolved rarely ever made very any sense, in Ezio's opinion. 

 

Or perhaps it did- Altair and his brothers had called it 'Eagle Vision' after all.

 

It stood to reason that the name might have more meaning to it beyond just mere symbolism.  

 

The fall from the rooftop onto the trellis below had been embarrassing, however, and had quickly dissuaded him of any further attempts at trying to climb and simultaneously pathfind through an eagles' eyes until he'd had more practice at it. Though he had remained uninjured, his pride had not, and so he’d resolved to find somewhere he could practice more discreetly.

 

Preferably as far away from Vieri as physically possible.

 

Bastard.

 

* * *

 

Apparently Ezio had not been the only one to consider apprenticeship as a strategy to deflect suspicion, he mused as he followed after Nicco. Had he not already befriended the artist and started working with him as an equal months ago, Ezio might have considered Leonardo as an alternative to the Medici’s falconiere himself.

 

Behind them, Vieri and Duccio persistently followed along, having insisted on going despite repeated implications that they were unwelcome (Ezio) and threats of bodily harm (Nicco- to the hilarity of their hanger-ons, who apparently did not realise that Nicco was very serious.)

 

Ezio grunted as he gently set the heavy box down, before carefully flipping the lid up and assuring himself of the safety of the fragile contents.

 

Duccio leaned into his line of sight, trying to peer at the inside of the box. “It’s just… jars?” Ezio stared at him flatly, raising an eyebrow as Vieri shoved Duccio out of the way. “Jars? What the hell do you need all of these little terracotta jars for, Auditore?”

 

Duccio, thrown off balance, stumbled to the side and caught himself on the bench. Ezio winced as the small terracotta jars rattled noisily in their crate. “...Reasons.” he stated flatly, before scooping the box back up. Reasons being the preliminary trial runs of a modified smoke bomb- not that he would ever tell those two that.

 

He exchanged a warning glance with Nicco over Vieri’s shoulder as the door swung open to reveal Leonardo.  “Ah! Ezio! And young Niccolo.. And..-” Leonardo frowned, momentarily caught off guard by the sight of Vieri and Duccio crowding into the small alcove. “-Messare Pazzi-”

 

“Leonardo, amico!” he returned the greeting fondly, and then glowered in Vieri’s direction. “Those two were just leaving.”   

 

“Ah, well, then, that’s-” Leonardo blinked as he noticed the box in Ezio’s hands for the first time. “Oh, but where are my manners, do come in. You too, Nicco.”

 

Ignoring Vieri’s protests, Ezio followed Leonardo inside.

* * *

MEMORY 5: LAST MAN STANDING

 

Lonely and desperate for some sort of familiarity in a world that might as well be full of strangers and ghosts, Ezio finds himself taking up the task of teaching Claudia to fight, though he quickly finds it a poor substitute for his once-daily sparring sessions with his sister in Roma.

 

This Claudia is so ... _young,_ and unspeakably _bratty_. She holds the dagger out at arms length, eyeing it uncertainly as though it were a snake that might bite her.

 

“ _Why_ are we doing this again, Ezio?” she whines.

 

Ezio sighs wearily, he knows she is certainly no Maestra, not yet -worlds away as she is from the fierce Lioness of Roma he remembers so fondly. Long-practiced as he is at the fine art of teaching even the most bull-headed of students, he does not give in to emotional outbursts at all anymore, but he is, perhaps, impatient and overcome with the desire to see Claudia regain some of that former strength of spirit- he finds the timidness with which she holds the weapon so ill suits her he wants to cry in frustration.

 

* * *

 

Giovanni frowns fiercely at his son. Of all the times for Ezio to choose to argue back, Giovanni wishes it were any other than this one.

 

“Your newfound habit of spending many of your days in Leonardo’s bogetta painting I can appreciate, your behavior I can understand, going behind my back to become assistante to the Medici’s falconer I can _tolerate_ , but _this_ ! This is simply _unacceptable_ , Ezio!”

 

“ ** _Why_**?” his son snaps, voice uncharacteristically sharp. “Why is it suddenly wrong for me to simply teach Claudia how to defend herself? Is that not my duty as her elder brother- _to protect he_ r?”

 

“ _‘Your duty as her elder brother-?’”_ Giovanni exclaims incredulously, and leans forward, planting both palms on his desk. “It is _your duty_ as a _child_ in this _family_ to do as your father tells you, Ezio, and _I_ am telling you to cease this nonsense at once!”

 

“I simply want to keep her safe!” his son insists mulishly, and then, in a quieter tone that seems almost forlorn, he adds “ _We won’t always be there to protect her._ ”

 

In the corner, Federico watches the ongoing argument with worry in his eyes.

 

Giovanni sighs wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turns from the desk abruptly, pacing away. “Ezio, I understand your desire to protect your sister, truly I do, and while your goal is admirable, there are far better ways of handling unscrupulous fools like young Duccio-”

 

“You think this is about _Duccio_? That little rat? It is not the _rats_ I am concerned about, _but the wolves at our doorstep_ , **_Father_** _!_ ” Ezio all but roars, desperation warring with anger in his voice.

 

“ _Wolves_ ?” Federico mutters to himself, baffled, and then, louder, he insists. “What wolves? Ezio, what are you on about? What does that mean, ‘ _the wolves at our doorstep-_ ’”

 

“ **Federico!** ” Giovanni warns sharply, and his eldest falls dutifully silent. “ _Enough_ , Ezio, regardless of what protection you might think Claudia may or may not need, the decision is not yours to make!”

 

A look of such deep, startlingly _ugly_ resentment and _rage_ passes over his middle son’s face that Giovanni actually falters midstride, and it looks as though Ezio might actually leap from the chair and continue arguing, or throttle him, or else, but then his son freezes for a moment, and then, all but spits out a angry “Fine!”

 

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the anger disappears, his son’s face going so carefully blank that he wonders if he’d merely imagined the look of utter loathing that occupied it only moments before. “Fine,” he repeats, in a softer, more controlled manner. He rises from the chair swiftly, and turns to Giovanni, face and eyes alike impassive, and unreadable. “....May I _go_ now, Father?”

* * *

 

Leonardo’s bogetta is devoid of its owner’s presence as Ezio roughly shoves open the door and makes his way into the shop. Various half-finished contraptions and paintings rattle in their places where they sit on shelves, lean against the wall or, in the case of the first prototype of Leonardo’s flying contraption, hang from the ceiling.

 

He storms across the first floor of the workshop, brushing past one of many tables with an angry huff. As he passed, the edge of his cape caught a small vase that had been used to hold brushes, and sent them tumbling into a scattered mess on the floor with an almighty clatter.

 

Ezio froze at the sound, hand twitching reflexively for not-there blades, and then he forced himself to relax and turn around. He grimaced at the sight.

 

_Impressive tantrum, dear brother. Very mature._

 

Ezio blinked, and turned cautiously to survey the quiet workshop. The cloth-covered easel that sat in his corner of the workshop shimmered with the faint golden glow of _important-personal-wanted-looked-for,_ but other than the faint red of the guards in the square beyond, there was no one else here. He was...alone.

 

_Well? You_ are _going to pick that up,_ aren’t _you? Just because Mother is-  ...isn’t ..._ well _doesn’t mean_ I _should have to mother you around as well, idiota._

 

Ezio caught himself nodding in hurried, placating agreement, and winced.

 

He half-glanced back towards the easel again, and then took a deep, calming breath, collecting himself before gently picking up the various scattered brushes and returning them to their proper places.

 

“ **There** ,” he grunted, half-heartedly scowling. “Are you..” suddenly aware of the emptiness of the room, he trailed off, biting back the _...satisfied_ **_now_ ** _?_

 

* * *

 

Task finished, he made his way over to his side of the space, this time taking greater care to be mindful of the dubiously “organized” chaos that was his friend’s various supplies and projects.

 

He retrieved his paints and then set about dragging over a nearby stool, the wooden legs protesting with whining creaks and groans against the cold tiled floor.

 

He nudged the stool over, adjusting it until he was satisfied with it’s position, and then reached for the cloth covering the painting. He stopped just short of grabbing the cloth and hesitated, fingers ghosting across the woven surface, waiting.

 

A deep silence prevailed over the bogetta, and outside the studio, the distant sound of the vendors in the market and the chirping of birds struggled to reach his ears through the studio’s thick walls.

 

He grimaced and ducked his head, pulling away the cover and tossing it onto the nearby table.

 

Ezio heaved a heavy sigh as he sat back onto the stool. He glanced up into golden eyes, so alike his own, and found himself returning that wicked, confident grin despite himself. After a moment, he sobered, and blinked back tears, looking away as he plucked a brush from the nearby table.

 

He forced himself to focus only on the tedious and  rhythmic work of meticulously painting the trim along one edge of the rich, red shoulder-cape.

 

It worked for a while, but despite himself, he could not help a stray glance past the canvas, and-

 

_-Claudia laughed uproariously at him, and drew her arm back, apple clutched firmly in one hand. He ducked his head with a yelp, throwing his arms up protectively in front of his face._

 

_After a moment passed and the bright, golden fruit still had yet to collide with his person, he decided to risk tentatively lowering his arms._

 

_Ezio scowled as a loud crunch echoed throughout the small room that held his personal study in the Isola, and Claudia flashed him a smug grin as she chewed. “ Hey!” he protested. “Claudia, you can’t do that-” Swallowing, she snorted as he lowered his arms all the way. She opened her mouth, witty retort no doubt at the ready, and then froze, mouth snapping shut, staring at him with wide eyes._

 

_“What?”  he queried incredulously, turning to look behind him at the empty, utterly normal room, before whirling around to stare at his sister. “What??” he demanded, sharper._

 

_Claudia burst into hysterical laughter, the apple dropping into her lap, and then falling to the floor with a dull thunk, rolling to stop just short of his feet. He scowled at her._

 

_“What, pray tell, dear sister, is so funny-”_

 

_“Oh,_ **_Ezio_ ** _, Ezio, you_ **_idiot_ ** _, you’ve- you’ve got-  got paint- ALLLLL-”_

 

_Dissolving into helpless giggles, she mimed running one hand across her face, and then dragged it through her hair, hunching over on the stool, wiping tears from her eyes._ _Ezio reached up cautiously to examine the area with a sinking feeling, groaning as he became suddenly conscious of something cold and wet smeared in a broad stripe across his nose and into his hairline._

 

_He lowered his hand and stared in horror at the thick smear of white that covered his fingers._

 

_“It’s- It’s okay,_ **_old man_** _,_ _” she mocked, before sliding off the stool with a cackle to lean against the wall. ”I’m sure- sure nobody will be able to tell the- pffffff- difference anyways.”_

                                                

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ezio seriously resents the fact that Giovanni deliberately excluded both himself and Claudia from any sort of training or even basic knowledge of the Assassin brotherhood, because it made the fallout of the Pazzi Conspiracy so much worse- and the fact that his father is doing it *again*, because last time, it *was* Ezio who had to deal with the consequences of Giovanni's decision, which had lasting, ugly, traumatic effects on both Ezio and Claudia. 
> 
>  
> 
> Brotherhood era!Claudia, in this AU, had a much more active role in the Brotherhood than the game leads us to believe, and was, arguably, just as equally as invested, if not more so than Ezio himself, in her brother's bloody crusade against the Borgia from the very start. Bad coping mechanisms galore :/
> 
> and yes, Claudia's portrait was drawn by yours truly
> 
> LS: *points at the potrait proudly* my FRIEND made that, it's beautiful.


	3. Sequence 2: Attack Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's not quite right in Firenze.

 

  
MEMORY 1: FITTING IN

" _No_ , _not like that-_ **_Ezio_** _!_ "

 

Giovanni looked up from the letter, frowning at the sudden noise. He met Maria’s eyes over the top of the papers, and she chuckled softly at his worried expression. More indiscernible yelling pierced the peace and quiet, and Giovanni sighed, carefully placing the letter face down onto his desk.

He hesitated, hands hovering over the letter indecisively.

It was nothing especially incriminating- just a dull, dry report from one of his contacts in the _guardie-_ something about a string of thefts. Nothing to be concerned about, really, and certainly something that was more of Volpe’s domain, but then Lorenzo had gone and asked him to look into it.

 

There was no shortage to the problems of his city it seemed, as of late- but such was life.

 

He plucked the letter up from the desk, turning it idly in his hands. Perhaps he would bring it up with Bernardo, during their meeting later. Or with Volpe, if he managed to track his wiley Brother down before sunset.

 

Maria coughed pointedly, and he looked up, meeting her eyes sheepishly.

 

“Let it _be_ , Giovanni.” she advised.

 

He grimaced, and then he dropped the letter, now folded, back onto his desk.

 

Maria held back a sigh as he started for the door only to turn back around and stride past the desk, towards the bookshelf, and pluck a book at random off of the shelf.

 

“Giovanni…” He dropped the book down on top of the letter, the ledger landing with a dull _thunk_ against the desk.

He held his hands up disarmingly. “I’m going.”

 

* * *

 

Giovanni stopped just outside the door to his youngest son’s room. Ezio had- as was becoming increasingly rarer with every passing day- _not_ immediately left the palazzo after breakfast, and Petruccio had quickly latched onto the opportunity, pleading with Ezio to come and play with him. His middle son had allowed himself to be dragged away with nary a word of protest.

 

He leaned against the door.

  


“ _-changed?_ ” Petruccio was saying,“ How can the rules have _changed_ ? They’re the _same_ as they’ve _always_ been.”

 

Ezio’s voice responded again, a quiet, indistinct murmur, that- though Giovanni cannot make out the words- is filled with such a deep and pervasive sadness that he cannot help but feel concerned.  He carefully eased the door open a few inches, just in time to catch the tail end of Ezio’s sentence.

 

“-don’t remember. It’s ...been awhile since I last played-” Ezio was perched on the edge of Petruccio’s bed, overlooking a scattered mass of marbles.

 

He frowned down at them, looking confused and more than a little lost.

 

“You _don’t remember_ ? How could you have forgotten the rules since _Christmas_?” Petruccio exclaimed in plaintive confusion. “That doesn’t make any sense!”

 

“You’re right… I’ve just… been _really_ busy, had a lot on my mind. Sorry, bambino.” Ezio sighed, hunching over on the bed.

 

Giovanni frowned.

 

Apprenticeship to a falconieri was hard work indeed, but nothing so serious to account for the level of distinct unhappiness in his son’s voice. The Medici’s falconer was a good, honest man, if a little gruff- and when Giovanni spoke with him he always had nothing to say about Ezio other than glowing reports and the highest praise.

 

_“The boy has a way with birds, signore.” He’d told the Master Assassin, puffing up with pride. “A natural, like nothing i’ve ever seen. Worth more than all five of my past assistants put together.”_

 

Ezio certainly looked .. if not happy, then at least more content and at peace than he’d seen his son in recent months, whenever Giovanni caught sight of him in the Medici’s courtyard exercising the birds.

….Perhaps it was time he start looking into exactly what it was his son was doing when he disappeared during the days he was not working with the falcons. He would have to speak with him about it, especially if Ezio was allowing ...whatever it was to affect his relationships with his siblings this poorly.

 

Putting thoughts of Ezio and birds aside, he returned his attention to his children.

  


Petruccio frowned at Ezio, putting his hands on his hips. "Ugh, I guess we should just… play something else, ‘cause you're bad at this." he declared bluntly, gesturing at the marbles strewn about the floor.

 

Giovanni's middle son eyed the marbles bitterly.

 

"Yes, I rather suppose I am." he admitted, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly.

 

"You, however-" he said, sitting up and jabbing a finger in his baby brother's direction, grinning. The grin didn’t quite reach his eyes, and the tinge of melancholy in Ezio’s voice was utterly lost on his younger sibling as Ezio leaned forward on his perch on the bed.

"Are obviously _not-_ a true _Maestro_ of your craft, fratello." he added, with a strange, almost _reverent_ emphasis on the word _maestro_ , the kind that Giovanni had only heard when greeted by his Brothers, or the increasingly rare novices they sometimes took on.

 

Petruccio giggled at that, and the giggling only increased when Ezio hopped off the bed and fell to his knees in a overly dramatic display, moving forward until he was kneeling level with the youngest Auditore.

Giovanni winced as marbles noisily spun in every which direction, but refrained from speaking out least he ruin the moment.

"Teach me, o wise one!" Ezio exclaimed in mock, exaggerated despair, and Giovanni could not help the fond smile that found its’ way onto his face.

 

"Teach me your ways, I beg of you!"  Petruccio shook even harder with laughter.

 

And then, so quiet he would have missed it if he hadn't been watching, Ezio whispered, voice pitched in a way that struck Giovanni as oddly sincere and genuine; "..... _teach me to be young again._ "

 

 

* * *

 

La Volpe sat perched atop the tower of the Santa Trìnita, surveying the district with a sort of weary impatience. He narrowed his eyes, color draining from the world as he cast his senses out, searching for a glimpse-sound-taste of _important-_ **_looked-for-_ ** _target_ gold. The bright white of the haystack beneath him fairly sang with the promise of safety, but he ignored it, pushing his senses out further.  

The red of the few guardsmen roaming the streets down below tasted bitter in his mouth, and there, on the edge of his awareness, he was dimly aware of the specks of blue that were the _familga Auditore_ going about their daily routines in their Palazzo, but there was no sign- at least, not as of yet, of Messere Bernardo.

 

He scowled and concentrated on the urgency of the matter. Bernardo _could_ _not_ be late.

 

 _Nothing._ He ducked his head irritably, shifting uncomfortably in the growing heat of the sun.

 

In a moment of frustrated impulsiveness, he threw caution to the winds and wrenched down his hood, and combed one hand through his hair with a frustrated growl. _Where_ **_was_ ** _he?_

He’d just begun to consider retreating to the relative shade of the haystack below and carrying on with his task, when some awareness in his other sense _clicked,_ like the turning of a lock, and his eyes flew open. He turned and craned his head, and felt relief wash over him as he caught sight at last of the blur of gold in the distance.

The other Assassin must have taken another route. This was nothing out of the ordinary, sometimes the cycles were just like that. Some events, minor ones, could change spontaneously, and others were fixed.

 He glanced up at the sky and winced. Bernardo was late, but, thankfully, it was not by much. Bernardo’s route was not a fixed point, but his attendance of the meeting was- as was the delivery of the letter Volpe held, tucked securely into a pouch at his waist.

Satisfied that Bernardo was well on his way, he stepped forward to the edge of the platform.

 

* * *

 

 

The Fox of Florence padded across the rooftops, the faint _click_ of the tiles underfoot and the cries of the merchants in the street below him his only companions as he made his way towards the Palazzo Auditore at a meandering, lingering pace.

 

Giovanni oft held meetings with those of their brothers in the city who also posed as bankers, under the guise of business meetings, and though he always sent messengers to find the Fox, it was with the mutual understanding that La Volpe would do as he pleased.

 

He paused, staring with gold-flecked eyes down at the pulses of blue below, before reluctantly stepping onto the roof, and then settled down to wait for Bernardo’s arrival. He’d learned it was best not to interfere before the meeting began, for some reason he had yet to understand, the timing of Volpe’s sudden arrival was inherently crucial to the cycle’s integrity.

 

Other than this one, Volpe rarely ever actually attended any of the meetings of his own volition- as leader of the Thieves Guild, he was often times simply far too busy.

 

It was also due, in part, to an acquired dislike for setting foot in the palazzo. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with it, per say, or that he held any ill-will towards it’s owners- he _didn’t-_ but the Palazzo sat at the heart of the cycle just as much as the family that dwelled within, and even setting foot inside the building felt as though he was throwing stones at the metaphorical hornet’s nest.

 

Tempting fate, as it were.

 

He fingered the pouch on his belt uneasily. If it weren’t for the importance of this letter delivery, he never would have come.

 

He had tried it, before, on several occasions- once, even going so far as to toss the letter into the Arno. None of those attempts had _ever_ gone particularly _well,_ but _that_ particular cycle had ...been ... _disturbing_ , to say the least.

 

Lucrezia for all her wits and sharp, acerbic nature, had made, in his opinion, a rather poor replacement for the Lioness of Rome, and the mere _thought_ of Cesare garbed in Assassin-white still sent shivers of dread down his spine.

 

Volpe stepped to the edge of the roof and dropped soundlessly onto the trellis below. He lingered a moment, distractedly admiring the roses that grew there. Maria Auditore had _truly_ outdone herself this cycle- not that she’d ever get to have the pleasure of _knowing_ that, of course.

Grimacing, he forced himself to return to the task at hand and swiftly made his way to the floor of the courtyard.

 

At the sound of distant voices, he quickly made his way towards the deep shadows of the overhang.

He paused for a heartbeat, one, two, and then when the voices showed no signs of alarm, and the blue of the figures remained dim and unaware, he made his way over towards the source of the noise. _Strange._ Usually no one else was here at this time.

Giovanni was becoming careless.

 

"- ...I really think you should just kill him, now, in all honesty. It would solve so many problems."

 

A young, clear voice drifted out of the open doorway to his right and La Volpe blinked in surprise.

While casual talk of death and murder was not _especially_ out of the ordinary in a household of Assassins, it was more so the voice’s familiar but decidedly-out-of-place nature that gave him pause.

He carefully nudged the door open a hair’s breadth more.

 

A young boy with dark, close-cropped hair stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by haphazardly scattered marbles.  His back was to the doorway, but Volpe raised an eyebrow in mild alarm as he recognized the familiar form of his one-time ally and fellow Roman Assassin- though now much too young, barely little more than a child.

Niccolo Machiavelli had not been well known to him at this time, originally- merely the son of one of Giovanni’s many contacts in the city, a young boy of barely nine years of age, whose ambition and quick mind spoke to the promise of an early promotion to _Maestro_ when he officially joined his father among their ranks.

Indeed, Volpe might not have recognized him even now were it not for the way he held himself- that particular aura of confidence and surety in his mastery that he bore even now, a sort of gravitas that bordered almost on comically absurd etched in a permanent frown on his eight year old face.

 

There was a series of rustlings underneath the bed followed by a muffled shout of triumph.

 

Young Niccolo turned towards the noise with a look of vague interest, idly bouncing one of the other marbles in his hand.  A moment later, Ezio Auditore crawled halfway out from underneath the bed, victoriously clutching an errant marble.

 

From under the deep shadows of his hood, their unseen observer blinked and leaned closer. Volpe frowned. He was ... _unaware_ they had been introduced. From the way Giovanni borderline _obsessed_ over keeping any knowledge of the Brotherhood from his youngest children, he had expected they would likely never get _to_.

 

"Who?” Ezio squinted, shoving strands of hair out of his face. “ _Savonarola_ ?" Volpe leaned back. The monk had not entered into the Brotherhood’s eyes for many, many years- not until he’d stolen the Apple of Eden and incited the Bonfire of Vanities, which was a good nearly twenty-two years in the future, and this, to his knowledge, had not changed. There was no way Ezio, or even Niccolo could _possibly_ know of him, not unless….

 

This was...not good.

 

 _“What-...._ **_No!_ ** _”_ Niccolo exclaimed, irately pitching the marble at him.

 

The hooded man sorted softly to himself, watching with fond amusement as the young nobleman, in his haste to roll aside, managed to smack his head solidly into the leg of the bed. The marble rolled past him under the bed and hit the wall with a dull but pronounced _thunk._

 

Niccolo blinked, seemingly startled, staring incredulously at his hand like it had betrayed him. Ezio snickered at him, and the child shook himself, grimacing in disgust as he snapped half heartedly. “..... _Idiota._ "

 

Ezio scowled back at him, and then shimmied back under the bed.

 

"Well." Niccolo amended after a second. "Actually, **_yes_ **-” There was a overtly loud sigh from under the bed, and Niccolo kicked out petulantly at the nearest foot sticking out from under the bed, eliciting an indignant yelp from his elder.

 

“ **_Perhaps_ ** it might not be a bad idea to go after _him_ as well, but no, I was talking about... _you know_ ...." he lowered his voice. "...the .... ahem... _Pope_?"

 

There was a long moment of silence and then Ezio burst out laughing underneath the bed.

 

"You... Nicco- you do realize that he's not- he's not the pope yet, right?"

 

With a thoughtful hum, the Fox of Florence slid smoothly away from the door.

Of all the people who could have possibly remembered, Ezio was one of the best potential outcomes, in Volpe’s opinion. Ezio had-been-would-might-yet-be made Mentor of the Brotherhood for a _reason_. For all his faults, the man had a level head on his shoulders.

And with Niccolo as well, to keep him in check.... He nodded to himself. This could be… _.interesting_.

 

The man paused briefly in the hall outside, and cocked his head, listening intently. A thump and muffled cry of pain followed after him, and he shook his head and chuckled to himself. Perhaps…. it was the other way around.

 

Either way, he was sure it would prove to be an ... _eventful_ cycle, to say the least.

 

* * *

 

“Ezio?”

 

Ezio glanced upward with a wince, cautiously probing the back of his head with one hand, now much more mindful of the bed’s sturdy frame. Niccolo’s voice came from somewhere above him, muffled by the mattress - he must have moved to sit on Petruccio's bed at some point while Ezio had his back turned. “....Are you alright?”

 

Ezio sighed and flopped over onto his back. “ _Dio_ ,” he muttered. “ my head.”

 

Niccolo hummed awkwardly in sympathy. Ezio was just considering scooting out from underneath the bed when Nicco spoke up again.

 

“You aren’t usually this clumsy, fratello,” he observed, half grating reprimand, and half unspoken question. Ezio scowled up at the mattress in annoyance. “ _Grazie_ , amico.” he huffed bitterly, and then rolled his eyes, reluctantly confiding:  “I thought I ...saw-”

 

He glanced back towards the open door warily. “I... can’t be sure. It was…” he trailed off.

 

Assassins never say ‘ _It was nothing_ ’ because all too often, ‘ _nothing’_ turns out to be ‘ _something_ .’ He frowned. And this- _a glimpse of violet, the flutter of a tell-tale brown cloak_ \- was definitely- ”... **_Something_ ** **.** ” he finished, cautiously.

Ezio paused.

 

“Niccolo?” he ventured, grinning as he pocketed the marble on impulse and began dragging himself out from underneath the bed. “Are you……. _jumping_ … on the bed?”

 

The noise stopped immediately.

 

“ **_No_ **.” Niccolo insisted mulishly, his feet reappearing on the floor as he made to rapidly distance himself from the bed.  Ezio snickered and then quickly ducked back under the safety of Petruccio’s bed, just in time to avoid a kick to the face.

 

“ _Ow!_ ” Niccolo complained as he missed his mark by mere inches, shin colliding with the sturdy frame instead.

 

Although Niccolo was- by their own, private reckoning, at least- somewhere around fifty-nine years of age, his body was still very much that of a child’s, and so he collapsed to the floor, blinking back tears in stunned pain.

 

“ _Why?_ ” he complained after a moment, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. “Does _everything_ hurt this body _so much_ ? I have a pain tolerance of _none_ , Ezio.”

 

Ezio’s snickers broke out into full-fledged laughter, and Niccolo swore violently, scrabbling wildly until his hands closed around something small and round, and flung yet another marble at Ezio. “Oh, _shut up!_ **_Bastardo!_** ”

 

* * *

 

Federico absentmindedly bit at the inside of his cheek as he strode away from the palazzo and back out into the street.

 

Over the past few months, it had become increasingly commonplace for Ezio to simply just disappear for long periods of time- sometimes Federico went an entire day without sight or sound of his younger brother, only for the younger Auditore to make, in Federico’s opinion,  a rather… reluctant reappearance the next morning. At first, most of their family, Federico himself included, had simply assumed Ezio was sneaking off to visit some new paramour, but they had found out, through Leonardo da Vinci, that Ezio had, in actuality, made himself at home in the artist’s _bogetto_.

 

Federico was currently making his way towards said _bogetto_ under his father’s orders to check up on Ezio and Federico would be lying if said that he wasn’t worried as well.

 

In the space of but less than a year, his brother had changed in dramatic and, sometimes, even _frightening_ ways- not but a few mornings ago, Federico had been sent to wake his younger brother up. He’d gone to teasingly shake him awake, as he’d once upon a time done every day for _years_ when Ezio was younger- only to find himself knocked flat on his back with a dagger hovering millimeters from his throat before he had time to even _blink._  The worst, most unnerving  part about it, in Federico’s opinion had not been the fact that it had happened so much as the absolute silence with which it had happened. Being startled awake, that Federico could understand, but even the most disciplined of men would at least make some sort of noise- Ezio had been completely soundless, with not even a flutter of cloth or intake of breath. Utterly silent, golden eyes terrifyingly feral and blank, until at last, some sort of recognition dawned in his eyes, and he’d withdrawn with a gruff “... **Don’t** _do_ that.”  

 

When questioned by their father later, Ezio had blinked, confusion plain on his face, and stared at them strangely as though he couldn’t understand why the question was even being _asked._  

 

“He was _walking_ too _quietly_ .” He responded at last, slowly, and with a bewildered expression on his face that said he thought this should _clearly_ be self-explanatory.

 

His father had been greatly disquieted by that response, though he refused to say why, and had retreated to their Sanctuary hidden behind the fireplace for hours.

 

Ezio acted so different, so strangely at times that Federico felt as though he was simply speaking with a completely different person, and Federico knew he was not alone in that sentiment. Everyone in their household had felt the change, whatever _it_ had _been_ \- even Petruccio and Anita had expressed bewilderment over Ezio’s strange new behavior.  

Mother was of the private opinion that it had .... _something_ to do with the bouts of intense headaches he’d had several months ago: he’d been frightened by them, she reasoned, unexplained and seemingly incurable as they were. Federico could see why she’d think that, and it might very well have been part of the cause, but he wasn’t so sure it could account for that ... incident, or Ezio’s newfound animosity towards their father.

 

Ezio had, all in all,  been acting very ….strange, to say the least, recently and it had everyone in their family worried. Federico glanced up to the hazy afternoon sky and frowned. Not a cloud in the sky and yet it felt like the moment before a storm.  The whole household was on edge and Federico had practically leapt at the chance to escape into the street, for all that the errand would inevitably lead him straight to the source of their family’s troubles.

 

Everyone took turns checking up on Ezio and, more often than not, were simply unable to even _find_ him, let alone see if he was _alright._

 

It was just as well that Mother had found out that he was spending time with Leonardo, or Federico would never be able to find him.  Not that he’d actually _succeeded_ at that, as of yet, for, for all of both his mother and Leonardo’s insistence and assurances that, yes, Ezio was indeed a frequent visitor to the workshop, Federico had yet to actually _see_ his brother there even _once_.

 

Federico had only been to the _bogetto_ once before, with Mother, but it wasn’t too far away. The stress of worrying about his little brother, however, removed any pleasantness of the walk there.

 

Stopping before the building, Federico took a few steps forward to rest his head against the door. It was so hard to see the changes wrought in Ezio and sometimes he feared talking to his younger brother.

 

What sentence would break his heart this time? What word would slam every change into his soul? How would Federico find his little brother in the midst of this confusion?

It was sometimes tempting to just ... _give up_ , to accept that this was just how things _were_ now. Ezio, clearly, did not want to be around them, and any attempts to reach out to him had been met with a cautious sort of hostility that seemed to only further drive the wedge that had somehow  come between them.

 

Ezio was still family though, for all his rejection of them, and Federico was still his older brother- and not only _that_ but an Assassin-in-training, a defender of the weak and protector of mankind, and the Brotherhood never just _gave_ _up_ \- his love of his family, sense of honor and fraternal duty _demanded_ that he move forward.

 

He pushed experimentally at the door, and found it, much to his surprise, unlocked. Usually, it had been either locked, or the artist himself in occupancy, with a regretful apology that, _no, he had not seen Ezio either, and had he perhaps tried the towers_?

 

That _Signore_ Leonardo was apparently not at home, _and_ the door remain unlocked was... while he hesitated to say that it was a _good_ sign, it was certainly more progress than he’d made in recent weeks.

 

A shrill cry came from the rafters as Federico walked into the _bogetto_ and he startled for a moment, eyes jerking to the ceiling. A large brown bird stared at him with eyes that shared the same peculiar shade as his brother’s when he used the Sight.

 _Eagle Vision,_ he’d heard his father call it many times, and he frowned up at it for a moment before recognizing it as the same bird that belonged to his brother. She’d been a gift from Messare Lorenzo to Ezio, for, supposedly, his outstanding work as a assistante to the Medici’s _falconiere._ Father apparently had had no prior knowledge of Ezio’s apprenticeship til that moment- Ezio had gone behind his back- and he had been… less than pleased to hear the explanation behind the bird that had been delivered to their palazzo.

 

“Hello-” he blinked. _What_ had Ezio called her.. _Juno? Minerva?_ _Tinia?_ Tinia sounded… _almost_ right, but not quite, and he grimaced _._ He was _sure_ it was something ridiculous like that.

 

“...girl?” he finished lamely, giving an awkward half wave as he squinted up into the gloom of the rafters.

 She shrieked again, loudly, and preened disinterestedly before turning and fluttering to another beam in the rafters, far away from him, and he scoffed after the eagle in disappointment.

 

“Alright then”, he muttered, affronted. “Be that way.”

 

He shook his head and looked around the room with renewed interest.

If that ...bird was here then there was a good chance that Ezio possibly was as well- the thing had developed quite the attachment to her young master, following him around, taking up space and perching anywhere she pleased- on the windowsills, coat hangers, in the rafters- and on one particularly memorable occasion, the bird had the audacity to attempt to perch on Father’s shoulder while he was speaking with Ezio. Father had found it amusing, as had Ezio. It was the first time he’d seen them actually laugh and joke together in as many weeks.

 

“Hello?” he called, softly. “Ezio?” Silence.

 

Federico frowned and moved further into the workshop.

 Paintings finished and unfinished, cluttered every inch of the room. There were some that he recognized as belonging to Leonardo, having seen the artist working on them once before, but there were also many that he did _not_ recognize. One in particular caught his eye and he frowned as he made his way closer to it.

 

The rich and vibrant reds of her clothing were striking enough on their own, but it was the woman’s _eyes_ that had first caught his attention. They were a bright, glowing golden color, almost unnaturally so, and her face, though fair, was fierce. Her hooded robe was dyed a deep red, and her shoulders covered by a partial cape made from an animal pelt - presumably a lion, based on the design of the armour. The delicate, lacy collar at her throat and the golden trim of the outer robes spoke of a noblewoman, but the armor and casual, calm gip on the dagger in her hand said otherwise: the tells of a warrior.

Federico reached out, fingers millimeters from the beaked hood - an _assassin’s_ hood, he realized now, regardless of the ...unorthodox color.

 

She was _familiar_ , he realized with a start. She was fiercer than any woman he knew, but the shape of her nose and the tilt of her smirk were deeply familiar to Federico and _he didn’t know why_. Who was this woman?

He could not recall seeing her ever before in his life, and surely he would have, especially with eyes like those- that color gold was almost exclusive to those blessed with Eagle Vision.  He bit his lip, troubled. Perhaps she was one of Paola’s girls- though he was sure Father had said Paola had not taken on an apprentice for the Order in many years. And, again, if any others of their Order had taken on apprentices with the gift he’d have surely met them, or at least heard of them by now, as they would have been sent to Father for instruction in using their gift- rare as it was, his sight was keenest the Brotherhood had been graced with in many lifetimes.

 

He frowned as another thought came to him.

Who had painted this portrait? Who could possibly know of the Brotherhood in Leonardo’s _bogetto_? He had not been aware that any of the artist’s many apprentices were counted among their number.

 

There was a faint _clink_ of glass on stone, followed by a deep, mournful sigh from the other side of the studio, and he whirled around in barely concealed fright, the painting with the eagle-golden eyes and hauntingly familiar features forgotten.

 

He glanced around wildly in alarm, straining his senses as he peered past the paintings in order to find the source of the noise. He found himself desperately wishing, and not for the first time, that he possessed the same gift as his father and younger brother- he could sorely use the confident ease with which Ezio perceived his surroundings.

 

Ezio _used_ to be a jovial, affectionately _loud_ drunk, so Federico had initially missed the younger man slumped dejectedly in the corner of the workshop.

Papers were scattered all around Ezio in a haphazard manner that had his inner banker crying out in dismay at the carelessness with which the papers were strewn about.

Some of them were covered in tightly packed, frantically scrawled writing, or else half-finished yet clearly ornate drawings and diagrams- the obvious, meticulous attention to detail screamed importance.

He stepped gingerly over the papers, keeping a wary eye on his brother’s form as he squatted down and carefully plucked the pages from up from the ground, shuffling them into a loose sort of order. The last one on top was covered from edge to edge in tiny, heavily condensed letters- and he grimaced as he squinted at them. It was.. legible, but most of it was utter nonsense. Federico frowned. It must be written in some kind of code.

 

He looked up, a teasing chastisement against disturbing Leonardo’s writings on his lips, but it died on his tongue as he took in his brother’s appearance. Smudges of charcoal and ink dotted both his brother’s clothing and skin alike, mingling with streaks of paint. It would almost be comical, if it weren’t for the overwhelmingly heartbroken expression on his face.

Hesitantly, he called his brother's name- but when amber eyes snapped up to meet his- for a moment Federico could not shake the conviction that there was a _stranger_ staring back at him with his brother's eyes.

 

“Federico,” Ezio murmured at Federico’s voice. He visibly relaxed at the sight of his brother and slumped back down onto his folded arms.

 

Federico dropped into a crouch next to his brother, scooping up the bottle into the crook of one arm. “Hey there, _old man_ ,” he said softly, grinning as he eyed the white streak of pigment smeared through Ezio’s hair.

 

“Tch!” He waved one hand dismissively in Federico’s direction.  “You and your mother both, Federico,” Ezio rolled his eyes. “Can I not paint in peace without teasing, hmm?”

 

Federico blinked, momentarily confused by the emphasis on ‘ _your_ ’, and then shrugged it off, shifting uncomfortably. Ezio frowned up at him and then shimmied his way into a upright position, huddled into the corner. He gestured to the floor beside him. "Come, sit with me.” Federico hesitated, and Ezio rolled his eyes. “Sit, _sit_ . Sit _down_ , Federico. Claudia can wait a while longer yet."

 

" _Claudia??_ " He muttered to himself, bewildered, side-eyeing his brother. "’ _Claudia can wait a little while longer_ ’ for _what_ ? What does _she_ have to do with _anything_?"

 

Ezio seemed not to have heard, instead patting the floor beside him. Despite all his instincts screaming at him to drag Ezio out of the workshop or shake him until he started making _sense_ , preferably both, Federico found himself humoring his younger brother and cautiously dropping to sit on the floor beside him.

  


They sat in silence for a moment, and Federico found his eyes drawn back to the strange painting again. She seemed so _familiar..._  

 

The silence had grown oppressively awkward, and so Federico latched desperately onto an earlier remark his brother had made.

 

“So Mother came around and visited again, then, did she?”

 

“ _Si_ ,” Ezio smiled fondly. “She’s always worrying about me even though it’s my duty to worry about _her_.”

 

He snorted, and squinted at his brother. “Rather comes with the territory, I think. Now,” he held up the bottle, shaking it slightly and watching the contents slosh around noisily. “What’s all this about? You started day-drinking, eh?”

 

Ezio scowled and opened his mouth to retort, but Federico cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Without _me_?” he added, feigning a hurt look.

 

“Your mother would kill me if I started drinking _with_ you, Federico,” Ezio shook his head. He eyed the bottle and shook his head sadly. “And with the good wine too? For _shame_.”

 

 _Again_ with the ‘ _your_ ’.

 

‘“Good wine?” he barked out with a incredulous laugh, masking his discomfort. “And what would _you_ know about ‘ _good wine’_?” He lifted the bottle and stared at it speculatively, and then, before Ezio could stop him, lifted the bottle to his lips and took a swig.

 

“ _Federico_!” Ezio sounded inexplicably scandalized at Federico’s actions.

 

“ _Oh._ ” Federico set the bottle back down, cradling it in his lap. “That _is_ good. Ezio Auditore _actually_ has taste, imagine that.” Ezio grumbled in a unintelligible slur at that, and leaned forward, swiping halfheartedly for the bottle, and Federico scooted backwards, hugging the bottle closer to his chest.

 

“I have plenty of time to develop a good taste in wine,” Ezio glowered at him, “when irritating nephews aren’t _stealing my wine_.”

 

Federico went still, the teasing grin on his face falling into an unnerved frown. _What was he talking about?_   _Nephews_ ? Stealing _your_ wine? Now you’re talking nonsense, Ezio.”

 

Ezio swiped the wine back and took another drink, straight from the bottle. “Oh, right to the disownment, hmm? How badly have I irritated your mother this time, Federico?”

 

Federico side eyed Ezio, and then casually leafed through the collection of papers he’d set on the floor beside him. He snuck a glance at Ezio, who remained seemingly oblivious, staring vacantly at the drawing he had clutched in his other hand.

 

“She’s _your_ mother, too, _idiota._ ” he mumbled in annoyance, scowling at the unintelligible, meaningless scrawl. It _was_ written in code, he was sure of it now. There was no way he could break this on his own.

 

A shiver ran down his spine as he recognized the handwriting as Ezio’s- though it was … slightly _off_ , almost _artificially,_ _deliberately_ different. He frowned, and suppressed a sigh. Much like his brother himself.

 

There was no way he’d be able to decode this by himself- and certainly not with Ezio close by, no matter how drunk. As quickly and unobtrusively as he could, he hastily folded the top sheet up into a small square, keeping a wary eye on his brother.

  


Ezio, seemingly realizing that Federico had said something, started and put the bottle back down and turned to stare at him in addled confusion. “ _What?_ ”

 

Something about the whole conversation felt decidedly _off,_ and had Federico ill at ease, and so he faked a cough and replied, louder. “Ahhhh... _nothing?”_

 

He feigned tugging at his collar, and  carefully slipped the folded parchment into his jacket.

 

 _“_ She’s- she’s fine. She’s not-” he dropped into a more serious tone of voice, tilting his head as he stared at his brother intently.  There was something strange going on with his brother, and he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that he could find out what it was if he could just coax it out of Ezio. He leaned forward. He couldn’t let this opportunity go to waste.  

 

“- _why_ would she be irritated?”

 

Ezio deflated at that, and gestured around the workshop with a defeated sigh. His brother looked tired and worn out and impossibly, inexplicably ... _aged_ in that moment, and when Ezio looked up to meet his eyes, the _stranger_ was back again.

“It’s _Flavia’s birthday_ , Federico.” he sighed. Federico stared at him blankly. _Who?_

Ezio turned to glance at him and he hurriedly nodded, feigning understanding as he frantically scrabbled for any memories of anyone he might know named _Flavia._ He was drawing nothing but blanks. “It’s her birthday, and here I am….” he gestured around the workshop with a decidedly unhappy look on his face. “Getting drunk and working on-” His eyes landed on the pile of papers next to Federico, and he fell silent, a sort of sluggish awareness slowly dawning in his eyes.

 

Abruptly, he lunged forward, and gathered the papers up into his arms.

 

Ezio glanced towards him and a split second of horrified fear shone in his brother’s eyes, and then he hurriedly tore his gaze away, ducking his head as he struggled to his feet.

 

“Ezio!” Federico exclaimed in dismayed surprise. “ _Come on,_ don’t be like that! We were having fun, what’s got you all in a huff all of a sudden-”

 

“ **_You should go_ **.” his brother snapped out gruffly, eyes flashing a molten gold as he hastily shoved the papers into a nearby chest.  

 

Federico halted in his approach, alarmed by the sudden change in behavior. His brother had never been a solemn, melancholy drunk, true, but neither had he ever been an _angry_ one.  

 

 _“Go_ , Federico. **_Leave_ **.”

“ **_Why_ ** _-_ ” he demanded, and then Ezio turned and began herding him towards the door.  Federico struggled with him briefly, but found to his dismay and perplexion that he was outmatched, and couldn't seem to slip around his brother. _Since when had his little brother been able to strong arm him into anything?_

 

“ _Ezio_!” he protested, again.

“ **_Just. Go._ **” the younger Auditore repeated emphatically, all but shoving him out the door, Federico flung himself against the door, struggling to keep it open.

“I just want to _help_ you, _you fucking idiot_ -” he hissed.

 

“You _can’t_. Stop trying.” his brother snarled, and the door slammed shut in his face.

 

Federico barely caught the muffled “You’re just making it _worse_.” as the lock audibly clicked shut.

 

“Ezio! What the **_hell_ ** does that mean?” He roared, pounding on the door. “ _Open this fucking door, I swear to God-”_ He slammed his fist against the door, and then withdrew with a wnce, cradling his hand. He glanced up into the street, and grimaced as he noticed a few passerby giving him concerned looks.

 

“Merda.” he hissed under his breath.

He’d been _so close._

 

 _At least he hadn’t come away empty handed,_ he thought, fingering the folded square of parchment hidden in his jacket.

 

* * *

 

Normally, Father would have been his first choice for decoding encrypted documents- especially ones that could potentially concern Ezio, but he was busy in another meeting that would last for much of the day, and speed was of the essence.  The sooner he got this page decrypted before Ezio realized it was missing, the better.

 

Federico settled down onto the bench in the market, and waited patiently. A few minutes, at most, had passed before a rather nondescript-looking man settled down onto the bench beside him.

“You need something from Volpe, boy?” he grunted.

Federico nodded, staring intently ahead. He carefully fished the square of parchment from his belt, and leaned forward to rest one elbow on his knee. He passed the parchment into the man’s hand, casually disguising the motion.

“It’s encrypted.” he explained. ”We need to know what it says.”

The thief raised an eyebrow.

“Decryption’s not usually the Fox’s job." He made a face, and raised one eyebrow. "Your pa couldn’t break it?”

 

Federico hesitated, reluctant to reveal his father's uninvolvement. “My father was... otherwise occupied.” he snapped. “And time was of the essence.”

 

The footpad held up his hands disarmingly. "Peace, boy. The Fox wil see it done."

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [And you will have become a prophet, for your words will have come true](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19172236) by [AriaLink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriaLink/pseuds/AriaLink)




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